


The Script

by DarkTwin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Plug, Anal Sex, Domination, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Smut, Johnlock - Freeform, Light BDSM, M/M, POV First Person, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Dynamics, Rimming, Sex Toys, Smut, Submission, d/s dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-28
Updated: 2015-11-28
Packaged: 2018-05-03 16:15:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5297906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkTwin/pseuds/DarkTwin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>I defer to him in everything else. In this, he defers to me. </i><br/>Shameless smut. Johnlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Script

You'd never think it of him.

Even if you knew about him and me _that way_ , you wouldn't think it. But he loves it, he _needs_ it, and it's a part of him that's as inseparable from the rest of his personality as light is from dark. Two sides of the same coin, neither side complete without the other.

I was never surprised, when I found out. Whatever it was that drew us to the other in the first place, irresistibly, with magnetic power, I must have sensed that he was looking for this, and he must have sensed that I would be willing – and more than willing - to provide it.

It's always me who provides the script, too. We don't stick to it religiously, though. He would, because surprises unsettle him, when it comes to this. But sometimes I want him unsettled, because that means he will look to me for reassurance, too.

And we have a number of variations on the theme, depending on the mood. Here is one of my favourites. It's the one that works best as a cure for stroppiness, antagonism, and general insufferability.

He's always a bit restless when I insert our black rubber toy into him at the start of these sessions. But he acknowledges that it's _my_ exclusive right to decide how he's going to find his pleasure. He's got used to getting on his knees and bending over as soon as I tell him to, spreading the cheeks of his arse with both hands so I can work it into him, generously coated with lube to ease the way, a warm steadying hand on the small of his back, whispering to him how well he's taking it and how beautiful he is like this.

This part of the ritual is indispensable. It may not be his favourite part, but he needs to be aware that he's having no say in this, and that all he's here for is to take from me what I give him, and to be grateful for it.

After that's been established, I always pick up the riding crop. I can feel the weight of it in my hand as I'm letting it whistle through the air. He tenses at the sound, knowing what's to come, but he never questions it. He knows that punishment and reward belong together. He braces himself on his hands and knees, and I let the riding crop smack down onto his bare skin, making him gasp and flinch with the pain of it, but also making him a little harder every time. The toy inside him soon trembles with the strain, the fake black balls lodged firmly against the sensitive skin around his stretched hole.

After a few strokes, I pause to put my hand between his legs from behind to test the degree of his arousal, and I can feel the satisfying heaviness of his cock and balls, and hear his desperate little whimper as he pushes against my hand, straining for friction.

Always a little sooner than I planned to, I put the riding crop aside and my other hand against the base of the toy, trapping him from both sides. “Move,” I whisper to him, and he obeys instantly. He rocks back against me to press the faux cock even deeper into himself, and then forward into the ring that I've formed with my fingers, dragging them down his whole burning hot length, and then the same all over again, and again. A soft, delighted sigh escapes him every time, born of deep, real pleasure and comfort at being taken care of after punishment. I can see his fingers tighten as he's clutching the sheets, and a sheen of sweat breaks out all over his body, on his back, on his chest, on his face. He's always got his eyes closed, always trusting me to know what's best for him, and happy to take whatever I give him.

We can do this endlessly, he fucking himself on the toy that I'm holding in place, and fucking into my hand at the same time, given over to my utter control of the situation.

When I find that he's deserved another treat, I change the angle of the toy a bit, a little steeper, and aim straight for that sweet spot deep inside him. I find it on the first try, he throws his head back, and a deep, throaty moan breaks out of him, pure gratitude. I can't get enough of those moans, so I turn them into a whole series, tearing them from his trembling lips every single time the toy grates against the right place. The moans become words then.

“Please,” he begs, “please... please...” and I close my fingers a little more tightly around his erection, assuring him that I'm there and that if he continues to be such a good boy, I'll still have an even better reward for him. He shudders in expectation, and tilts his burning arse up even further, offering himself up, desperate for me to enter him and own him and make him mine for real. I run a hand along the insides of his thighs and push them further apart, until he's utterly open and vulnerable.

“Take me,” he gasps, and he means it, because all he wants now is me granting him what he's earned.

I take a moment to worship his beautiful body, running my fingers along the sharp bones of his hips and the firm roundness of his buttocks and into the small dell just above his crease where the sweat has pooled, drawing lazy patterns on his lower back with the tip of my finger while he's panting with frustration and need.

And finally, I have mercy on him. I remove the toy, but slowly, inch by inch, enjoying the view of the tight ring of muscle around it contracting and relaxing again. He always regrets that loss a little, because he knows and loves what it signifies, that I always plug that hungry little hole of his up until he's earned something even better. It comes out, slick and shiny and warmed from the heat of his body and smelling deliciously of him, and I lean in and instead press my lips to his slack, well-used hole.

He cries out, both disappointed at another delay and almost ecstatic at the new sensation, torn between raw need at _getting_ there, and helpless delight at how masterfully I'm drawing it out, driving him out of his mind with anticipation. I position the tip of my tongue against the slick pucker of muscle, and with a hand on his hip direct him to push back against it.

“Ah!” he cries out when my tongue breaches through the barrier. “Ah! Ah! Ah!”, mindless cries of pure lust as he's fucking himself open again on my tongue, dripping sweat now, trembling in every limb. I know he loves it, and I do this every time, to bind him to me even closer, but I never allow it for too long. It always smacks a little too much of him trying to gain the upper hand and go at his own pace. So after I've allowed him a few more self-administered thrusts, I withdraw, and with my other hand still around his cock, throbbing frantically under my fingers now but miraculously still holding out, I'm finally, finally giving him my best gift, straight inside in one single swift plunge.

Even though we've been heading for this all along, he cries out at the sudden invasion, a cry of surrender if I ever heard one. He never has any energy left at this point to meet me thrust for thrust. All he can do is keep still and receive me, the muscles of his hole clenching around me erratically, whenever I draw back a little to gather momentum for the next thrust that lodges me even deeper in that dark cavern where I belong, and where he needs me in order to be happy. I gather him up in my arms, and pull him back against my naked chest, exposing the full extent of his desperate need.  
  
“Touch yourself,” I whisper to him, and as if he's only been waiting for it, his hands – both his hands – fly to close around his own erection.

“Just one,” I tell him.

“ _Please_ ,” he gasps, but I'm adamant.

“Close it around the tip. Stroke it.” He does, and I'm watching it over his shoulder, still rocking into him gently all the while. He obediently plays with the tip of his own cock, spreading the pre-come that's been leaking from it around it. “Run your finger along the slit,” I order, and he does that, too, generating friction as he moans, another series of “aah!”s now, but sweet and low this time. “Now along the underside.” He uses his palm for that, not his fingers, and the moans get louder again. “Feel your balls,” and he cups them with his hand, feeling the strain and the weight of what's built up in there. It always makes me feel a bit drunk, how I can guide him with no more than my voice, keep him on the brink of orgasm for an hour if I want to, desperate to just let go but so well trained by now in accepting my control of his pleasure that he won't do it.

I defer to him in everything else. In this, he defers to me.

“And now come for me,” I whisper to him at last, when it's me who can't hold back any longer. A few more thrusts from behind into the tight heat of his pliant body, and that's all it takes, not even a touch. He cries out again, a long, ragged sound of relief, and then he's coming like he never does otherwise, in thick spurts, endlessly, into the sheets under him, again and again and again as all the tension ebbs from his body and he goes as limp as a rag doll. He collapses onto his own mess with nothing to hold him up now but my hands on either side of his hips, keeping his arse raised while I'm still pushing, pumping, _heaving_ into it in my own slower rhythm until I, too, am spent.

I close my arms around him again then, and nudge him gently onto his side. He whimpers, and I can feel him tighten around me, afraid of losing me too soon. Taking great care to stay inside him, I pull him back towards me, spooning him from behind, my breath warm on the back of his neck. To the sound of my voice muttering praise and reassurances into his ear, and to the feeling of my cock, warm and solid, still filling him up and anchoring him to me, and my left hand cupped protectively around the velvety softness between his own legs, he takes the little finger of my right hand into his mouth, swirls his tongue around it lazily for a moment, and then starts suckling himself to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> As I said, this is a piece of shameless smut. Rather fluffy, too. I apologise. :o
> 
> But I admit that this is also an experiment, triggered by a recent heated discussion with someone who said that in a PWP, names were interchangeable and the characters' personalities didn't matter. I begged to differ. So even though I've deliberately avoided mentioning names and other identifying features in this story, please don't disappoint me now by saying you can't tell who is who! 
> 
> The experiment may continue. 
> 
> Your feedback is greatly appreciated!


End file.
